Bouncing Into Graceland
(Note: I spent too long trying to pick a verse from Paul Simon’s “Graceland” to include at the top of this letter. I think I chose wisely.)
“And my traveling companions
Are ghosts and empty sockets
I'm looking at ghosts and empties
But I've reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland”
— Paul Simon. “Graceland.”
I more or less began the new year crying on my neighbor Jack’s couch. The whole scene was a girly mess of “I’m so sorry” and “it’ll be okay.” She and Bobbie fixed me a ham and cheese Hot Pocket with a side of potato chips and I sobbed and spilled my guts while forcing myself to eat just one more bite. Bobbie was so riveted by my story that she cried, too. Jack was mostly quiet, but when I finished talking she calmly faced me and said, “You know what you gotta do now.”
“No,” I said, blowing my nose into a Kleenex. “What the hell do I do now?”
She stared into my eyes. I stared back. Her expression was gravely serious and I unconsciously held my breath.
“You gotta go to Memphis,” she said.
I exhaled. My stomach loosened its grip on itself.
“I think you’re right,” I said.
As I sat on Jack’s couch pondering the possibility of MEMPHIS, I remembered an afternoon last August when Bobbie gave me a box of jewelry that belonged to her late wife. She suggested I sell the jewelry to help get me through the strikes, which were impacting my fledgling career as a freelance entertainment copywriter. I was so touched by the gesture I hardly knew how to react. Bobbie insisted it was no big deal — I just had to promise to be careful if I kept the gold Rolex. Half joking, I asked if I could hypothetically wear it to Graceland — “you know, someday, if I ever get there” — and she said that would be fine. Now, suddenly, August felt like a lifetime ago, and I, not so suddenly, felt like a different person. I didn’t want to go to Memphis because it would help me stop crying — I wanted to go to Memphis because the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much.
I looked at Bobbie. “Last summer you told me I could wear Christie’s Rolex to Graceland.”
“Oh, honey,” said Bobbie, “Christie’s going with you to Graceland.”
I booked a flight and a hotel a week later, and then I bought a ticket to Graceland — Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee.
So, surprise. I’m here, in Memphis, writing to you from The Guest House at Graceland and watching the 68 Comeback Special on tv. I dialed 37 from a telephone at the baggage claim, and a giant van with Elvis’ picture on it showed up for me. Tomorrow morning, at 9:15 CST (7:15 PST), I’ll enter the gates of my Roman Empire. I’ll probably cry.
Maybe I’ll sleep great. Maybe I’ll have prescient dreams. Maybe I’ll get a job as a tour guide and live happily ever after with an Elvis impersonator who loves his mom (in a healthy way). Maybe my zigzagged path to the mansion was worth every irritating turn. Maybe Christie is here. And maybe I’ve reason to believe we both will be received in Graceland.